Dream, Dream, Go Away, Bother Me Some Other Day
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: post-2x08. Karofsky really hates what his brain comes up with while he's asleep. .:. one-sided Dave/Kurt, mild angst. :D


**A/N: LOLOLOLOL Another stupid, random idea of mine. So sorry. But I wanted some angsty fluff (oxymoron much?) before the episode tonight. XD**

**NOW WITH SEXY FANART BY YOURS TRULY (please remove spaces): poetic-kitsune. deviantart. com/art/Dream-Go-Away-DaveKurt-191959507**

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I hover above someone smaller than me, and I don't hesitate to connect our lips. They breathe shallowly, their breath mixing with mine, and I feel far too warm. But it's a comfortable warmth, and they don't seem to particularly mind.

One hand keeps me balanced, holding me up, but my other hand gently slides under their shirt, lifting part of it off their heated body. My fingers brush skin, and it feels smooth and soft, but there is a solid, firm layer of muscles just beneath the surface. Their stomach quivers as I run my fingertips delicately over the expanse of skin, and the person beneath me emits a small sigh.

I raise their shirt higher, but where a pair of breasts should be, there is only flat pectorals. Oddly, I find nothing wrong with this as my thumb bumps a bud, turning it into a pebble. The person beneath me laughs breathlessly, as if mocking me, but I know better. He's ticklish, that's all.

He sighs again as I kiss a zig-zag trail down his throat. His hands are tangled in my shirt above my traps, his thumbs brushing the exposed skin of the back of my neck. I bring our mouths together again, and a moan escapes me when his hot, wet tongue slides playfully over my bottom lip, asking entry. I don't deny it to him.

And soon, I'm leaning back and letting my eyes adjust to the dim lighting so that I can see his face.

He smiles at me. But the smile grows cold in the pit of my stomach when I realize all too harshly that the person – the _guy – _I'm making out with his none other than _Kurt Hummel._

**Bleep! Bleep! Bleep! Blee–**

My eyes fly open with a start, and I bolt upright in bed, absent-mindedly smacking my alarm clock off. I peel the blankets and sheets from my body (which explains why I felt too warm in my dream) and rub my eyes.

"Dammit!" I hiss under my breath as I grab my pillow from behind me and hurl it at my closet doors. A huge _whumf_ sound resounds throughout my bedroom as it makes impact.

Growling at my dream, I stand up and shake off the phantom pleasure of hands on my body and lips on my lips.

"Fuuuuuuck my life," I grumble as I enter the shower in the bathroom next door. I turn on the water, a piercing cold, and suck in air too sharply, coughing, as the water makes contact with my back. Shakily, I turn and let it hit my front, and the sensation all but suffocates me.

It's been two days – only _two meager days _– since I returned to school and found Hummel missing. And it must be my mind's twisted way of showing how I'm reacting to the void of him gone by giving me these tormenting dreams.

How I wish that had been a girl under me. How I wish that, if not a girl, it had at least been a random guy I didn't know, or even an actor. How I wish that the dream didn't mean anything, that his smile hadn't made my stomach clinch.

But we never get what we wish for, and that's the fucking slap-in-the-face truth of things.

I punch the tile of the wall that doesn't mirror my parents' bedroom. My knuckles make a sickening cracking sound, and the skin breaks on the middle one, but as I turn the water hot and let the small amount of blood wash down the drain, honestly, I could care less how it hurts.

I'd rather bleed a little than keep thinking these damn thoughts about a _guy,_ the same girlish guy whose lips are too perfect and pink and soft to leave my head, the same flamboyant guy who refuses to back down and yet proved me wrong yet again by up and vanishing. The same guy I know I shouldn't care about, shouldn't _crave_ so, and yet I fucking _do,_ and it pisses me off to no end.

I wanted him gone. I wanted him away from me, and yet I also tried to get closer. I was stupid. And now I'm paying for it, karma-is-a-bitch style. Now what I wanted came true, and it's biting me in the ass with the viciousness of a rabid dog.

I said it once and I'll say it again: "Fuck. My. Life!" I curse quietly, so not to disturb the rest of the house, but maintaining the rage in my tone.

I step out of the shower, my hair and stuff all clean, and I wrap a towel around my waist. I pretend that I don't hate myself and am not disgusted with myself as I wipe the fog from the mirror (I forgot to turn on the fan again) and stare at my reflection. I rub my chin – there's stubble there, and along my jaw, and everywhere. For a minute, I almost don't shave. What's the point, really? It's not like I have anybody at school to impress (any longer).

Shrugging, I slap on some deodorant and a dab of cologne and exit the bathroom. In my room, toss down my towel, my hair dripping slightly, and choose some underwear and socks at random, turning to face my closet. I move my abused pillow out of the way and yank open the doors.

Hmm. Jeans, jeans, jeans… and polos, polos, polos. A flannel shirt of two, but other than that, not much. How come I never realized how fucking _boring_ my wardrobe is?

Oh. Right. Because I always figured my letterman would cover up my lack of fashion sense, and because I never really cared.

Until recently.

I suddenly want to become somebody else. I want to break out of the crowd, shatter the stereotypes.

But I know I don't have the balls to do it.

So with a sigh, I select a shirt and pair of pants at random, hopping into the jeans and yanking on the shirt. I feel like an idiot, and for once, I leave my jacket slung over my desk chair.

After breakfast, I really have nothing to do. I go online. I mess around with a random app on Facebook (Mafia Wars; what's new?). And then I head out to my car, finally tired of hanging around at home.

I don't take money for lunch. I don't feel much like being in the cafeteria today. If I'm hungry, I can always come home and eat. I doubt I'll have practice; I think I might've been kicked off the team.

Another reason to leave my letterman behind.

I can tell by the way my car is sluggish to kick into ignition and by the rainclouds flooding the sky that today is definitely _not_ going to be a very chipper day.

Not that it matters. So day for me is ever very chipper, since I'm not a very cheery guy. And besides, it's not like the one person I want to be at school is even there anymore. So what's the use?

I simply shake off the feelings of that dream – still trying to will its images and sensations to float out of my mind – and hum to myself the familiar childhood tune of _Rain, Rain, Go Away._


End file.
